


Just Another Watson-Holmes Christmas

by MoonRiver



Series: Amelia [19]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Eve, Family, Family History, Family Secrets, John's A+ Parenting, M/M, Parentlock, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are Parents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 05:40:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8878108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoonRiver/pseuds/MoonRiver
Summary: John, Sherlock, and Mycroft have worked hard to make sure Amelia Watson-Holmes knew nothing of her family's dark history, but she's eighteen now, and one Christmas she decides enough is enough.She deserves to know the truth.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this sitting around my computer since last Christmas! I didn't finish it in time to post last Christmas but promised myself I'd post it this Christmas, so here you go! As with most Amelia stories this is pretty stand-alone. In case someone comes across this that hasn't seen series three, spoilers for series three! Happy reading!

Seven o’clock.

She was home right on time.

Eighteen year-old Amelia Watson-Holmes couldn’t help but to smile with pride as she used her key to push open the door to her family’s townhome. It was Christmas Eve, and she was given permission to spend the day at her boyfriend’s while her dads worked but _only_ if she returned home at exactly seven o’clock for her family’s annual Christmas Eve dinner. It was sort of a trial run to see if she was responsible enough to spend more time with her boyfriend. And if she could really prove how mature she was maybe she could even convince her dads to let her go with her boyfriend’s family to Spain next summer.

“I’m back!” Amelia called as she stepped into the living room.

She stopped when she found the house empty. Strangely, the Christmas tree was still lit up and there were candles burning on the coffee table and the mantel over the fireplace. Sherlock hated candles and her dad was adamant about not leaving candles burning when no one was around so that was unusual.

Someone was here.

Just not her dads.

“In here!” She was surprised to hear the voice of her uncle Mycroft from the kitchen. Frowning, she sat her purse down by the door and wandered into the kitchen to find her uncle taking a ham out of the oven.

“Smells good,” she commented as she crossed her arms and leaned against the doorway. “So I’m the first person home?”

Her uncle’s eyes narrowed at her over the ham before he carried it into the dining room. She followed him, chuckling to herself.

“Of course,” she sighed. “They hound me so much about being home on time and they’re still out.”

“In their defence they’re both stuck at work,” Mycroft replied as he sat the ham down in the center of the table. Amelia’s eyes widened when she saw the spread laid out before them: potatoes, carrots and beans, salad, meat, three different kinds of casseroles, and freshly baked roles covered the dining room table. “Your dad was called into surgery and Sherlock is stuck on a case with Gregory.”

“Oh.”

She placed her hands on the table and diverted her eyes to the floor, trying to hide how disappointed she was. As much as she argued with her parents about not having enough time to spend with her friends and as much as she made fun of their annual traditions, she did love her family holidays.

“Yes, ‘oh’ indeed,” Mycroft said as he stood back and examined his work. “Of course it would have been nice to know this before I cooked an entire feast.”

“So…do we have to wait on them?”

 

It took them exactly twenty minutes to eat a good fourth of the meal it took Mycroft hours to cook. After putting all the leftovers into containers in the fridge they both collapsed on the sofa, each of them so full from over-indulging in food they were ready to pass out.

“Oh my god I’m so stuffed,” Amelia said as she put her feet up so they rested on her uncle’s lap. She knew he hated when she did that, but of course he didn’t argue. “We’re not doing a Christmas breakfast thing are we? Because I don’t think I’ll be able to eat for a couple of days.”

“And you know your dad will make his annual ‘traditional British breakfast’ for Christmas," Mycroft reminded her with a smirk, "then we have your grandparents' house for dinner."

“Great,” she muttered.

They shared a smile, knowing both of them would eat whatever their family fixed for breakfast and dinner.

Now that they were through eating Amelia wasn’t sure what to do. Mycroft wasn’t exactly full of Christmas spirit. He wouldn’t want to watch films or listen to Christmas albums.  Sure she didn’t mind being around her uncle, but he was just a bit too reserved. She felt like she could talk to him about pretty much anything and he would listen, but he rarely offered anything personal back.

But it had been a long time since the two of them had hung out alone, and she had always had some things she wanted to ask him about but had always been too nervous to. After all it was Christmas, and maybe, just maybe, she could finally get him to open up.

Amelia watched as her uncle reached for a bottle of red wine on the table and began to open it.

“Can I have some?” She blurted out.

He raised his eyebrows; clearly he was curious what kind of drinking habits she had developed since becoming of legal age to drink. Truth was she hadn’t liked anything she had tried, but she was determined that was just because she hadn’t tried the good stuff yet.

“Try this,” Mycroft offered, handing her his glass.

Clearly he didn’t expect her to like it if he wasn’t even offering to pour her some to try.

She turned her nose up at the overwhelming smell of…she couldn’t quite put her nose on it: maybe…blackberries? Drawing in a deep breath, she threw the glass back and swallowed down a bit of wine that was probably too much for her first taste.

It was too much for her to even figure out what it tasted like.

“Wine drinking is an acquired taste,” Mycroft said, grabbing a tissue from the table so she could wipe away some wine that dribbled down from her lips.

“Clearly,” she muttered as she handed the glass back to him. “That tasted like all of the cold medicine in Dad’s cabinet combined into one glass.”

“That is an excellent bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon from Tuscany. It’s twenty years old!”

She scrunched up her nose at the very idea.

“I just drank something that’s older than me?!” She exclaimed.

Rolling his eyes, her uncle replied:

“That’s it. You and I are going to do a wine tasting together. In the meantime I think I know a drink that might be a little easier on your taste buds.”

Amelia followed her uncle to her dads’ liquor cabinet, punched in the code, and took out a bottle of rum.

“You know the code to their liquor cabinet?” Amelia asked, her lips turned up in a sly smile.

“There’s not a code or password of either of your fathers that I don’t know,” Mycroft smirked. He mixed up the alcohol with some coke from the fridge and some ice and handed it to her with a knowing smile. “Go ahead. It will be good, I promise.”

This time she carefully raised the glass up and took a small sip of the drink. This drink tasted like...well…coke. Maybe a little sweeter than normal, but it was actually rather tasty.

“Thanks!” She grinned. “What’s the drink called?”

Mycroft stared at her for a long moment before answering dryly:

“Rum and coke.”

She let out a laugh before taking another sip of the drink.

“You know you really don’t have to hang out here all night,” she told him.

“And leave you here alone with liquor?” Mycroft replied. “I think not. I’ll stay until your dads get home.”

“I really don’t need a babysitter.”

“I beg to differ.”

Her uncle’s eyes twinkled as he waved his hand toward the sofa, inviting her to sit back down. Rolling her eyes, she threw herself onto the sofa and sipped more of her drink. Her head was buzzing ever so slightly, but she forced herself to ignore it.

“So…” she said after a few long moments of silence. “Christmas…”

“Yup.”

And more silence.

The truth was she didn’t have much in common with her uncle at all. The truth was even after eighteen years of life, after eighteen years of sharing birthdays, Christmases, and being babysat by him she didn’t know Mycroft at all. For god’s sake she still wasn’t even entirely sure what it was he did for a living. She knew it was something to do with the government, and considering he wouldn’t even get into the subject of which branch she had a feeling he worked _very_ high up.

All she knew was that sometimes there were still times when her dad would look at his brother when he thought no one else noticed, and it was like…it was like her dad didn’t know what to think of him. Sometimes there was almost this _disdain_ in his eyes. Amelia wasn’t stupid: she knew very well both of her dads and Mycroft had a whole history before she was born. She knew they weren’t always a happy family.

When her fathers talked about their past, about their relationship history, they usually began with becoming flatmates back at Baker Street and jumped to after she was born.

So what happened in between?

“So Uncle Mycroft…I’m eighteen now,” she began.

“Yes, we’ve established that,” he replied before drinking another sip of wine.

“I just feel like I’m old enough now to know more about my family history,” she said.

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed and turned a bit cold, sending a chill down her spine. She had a feeling her uncle had feared this day would come, when she would finally demand to know answers. She was sure he had some blanket bullshit answer ready that wouldn’t really tell her anything, and she was determined for once and for all to actually learn something about her family history.

“And what exactly do you want to know?” Mycroft asked, hesitant.

“For starters…” she hesitated herself, wondering if she really wanted to go there with Mycroft instead of her fathers. But they had shown time and time again that they weren’t too eager to give her more information. Her uncle was her only hope. “I want to know more about how my Dads met.”

For a long moment her uncle simply stared at her, as though hoping he could will himself to go back in time and prevent her from asking the question. He took a long, slow, sip of his wine and she took another sip of her rum and coke.

“You know the story,” her uncle finally replied. “John needed a flatmate and a friend of his introduced the two.”

“Yeah but…how did they _get together_?” She said. “They only say it was after I was born, after Sherlock moved in to help, but…”

 _“But?”_ Mycroft echoed. “That’s what happened, they didn’t plan for it. Over time they just…fell in love.”

He looked confused even as he said it; clearly it wasn’t a topic he was comfortable with.

“I’ve seen photos, Uncle Mycroft,” she announced. “They tell me it was after I was one…almost two years old. But I’ve seen photos of them together, with me when I was a baby and…I know they’re before I was two. I can tell by looking at those photos that they were together before I was two. Why would they lie about that?”

Her uncle’s face paled a bit as he leaned back against the sofa and placed his fingers underneath his chin.

“It’s really not my place-“ he began quietly.

“They don’t want me to know they were together so soon after my birth!” She exclaimed. “Because that would mean they were together so soon after my mother died. Why? Why was it so easy for them to get together after she died?”

Her stomach felt sour, and it wasn’t because of the drink. In fact she downed the rest of it and slammed the glass down onto the coffee table.

“I love them,” she said softly. “I do, and I wouldn’t trade them for the world. I’m happy I’ve had Sherlock in my life…I don’t know what I would do without him. But I did have a mother. And I just…I don’t understand. My dad went from being married and having a baby to being a widower and falling in love with his male best friend. It just makes me think that maybe he and my mum weren’t so happily married.”

Eyes falling to a close, Mycroft raised a hand to his forehead and rubbed it.

“I honestly did not personally know your father very well at that point,” Mycroft said. His voice was so stiff that Amelia knew he was lying through his teeth.

“Did they get married because they were going to have a baby?” Amelia asked coldly.

Mycroft didn’t reply. She knew she was testing his patience, she knew there was a line, but at the moment she didn’t care.

“They didn’t know she was pregnant until after they were married,” Mycroft replied.

“How do you-“

“Because it was my brother who figured out she was pregnant. He figured it out at their wedding.” Mycroft sighed. “This really isn’t my place, Amelia.”

“Why do you keep saying that?” She demanded, crossing her arms as she leaned against the sofa cushions. “Is it really that bad?”

This time her uncle simply didn’t reply.

“It’s funny…” Amelia began, staring down at her hands. “They don’t really mention her much anymore. Not nearly as much as when I was little, I mean. We hardly even go to her grave anymore. It’s almost like…it’s almost like they’re trying to phase my mum out of our lives.”

“They’re not trying to do that.”

“It feels that way to me,” she whispered.

She planted her lips in a firm line and paused before she began again, not wanting to say anything she’d regret telling her uncle later. She was aware her uncle and her dads had a pretty close relationship now, and she had to keep in mind any of this could be relayed back to them. She didn’t want to be responsible for ruining things between them.

“He hasn’t even mentioned her this Christmas,” Amelia confessed. She felt tears swell in her eyes and she drew in a deep breath to calm herself down. “Daddy, he hasn’t even mentioned her once. I mean I don’t want him to be sad and depressed all the time but…she’s still my mum, you know? I just want to know about her.”

“They’re not trying to phase her out of your life,” Mycroft reiterated. “I can promise you your father thinks about her all the time.”

Absent-mindedly, Amelia took out her mobile and checked the time. It was only eight-thirty.

“I notice things, you know,” Amelia said. “I notice that sometimes daddy looks at your brother like he’s still not quite sure what to think of him. Sometimes I swear he looks at him like he’s surprised he’s even standing there. I notice he looks at you sometime like even after all these years he’s still not quite sure what to think of you. I notice that sometimes your brother falls asleep on the sofa when he gets home, and sometimes I go into the kitchen to get some water in the middle of the night and sometimes I’ll hear him shouting in his sleep. I’ll peak around the corner and see his face and it’s all sweaty and horrified and sometimes I think he wasn’t just dreaming of a nightmare but of a memory. I think some really bad things happened to my Dads between the time they met as flatmates and between when I was born. I think at least part of it involved my mum.”

For a long moment she and her uncle stared at each other, and she finally felt like he was taking her seriously. Maybe he wasn’t about to spill all the secrets of her dads’ relationship to her, but he at least understood where she was coming from.

“Can I ask you something?” Amelia said. “Not about their relationship or my mum. I want to know…where did Sherlock’s bullet wound come from?”

At first Mycroft froze.

Then his fingers folded together so that he held his hands together so tightly his knuckles turned ghostly white.

And then he let out a laugh.

“What?” She demanded.

“Just something you said,” he sighed.

“He says it’s a war wound,” she stated defensively, “but he was never in a war, only Daddy was. So what does he mean by that? Who shot him? Why?”

This time it was Mycroft’s turn to take out his mobile and check the time.

“Perhaps you should go to bed,” he announced.

“It’s only eight-thirty,” she said, crossing her arms. “I’m not a child. I don’t even have school tomorrow.”

“You don’t say?” Mycroft quipped. “No school on Christmas? Is that a new thing?”

Reaching out, she playfully hit his knee.

“Come on, Uncle Mycroft!” She pleaded. “Obviously he wasn’t just shot on a case or it wouldn’t be a big deal to tell me about it.”

“It _was_ during a case.”

The interruption was so abrupt, so unexpected, that she had to stop for a moment and wonder if she heard him right.

“He was shot during a case?” She asked slowly.

Letting out a sigh, Mycroft took both of their glasses in hand and headed back into the kitchen. She followed him, determined not to let him off the hook that easily. She watched as he reached opened the fridge and stared into it for a long moment. At last he took out a chocolate pie and slid it onto the counter.

He turned to meet her eyes and asked:

“Pie?”

After dishing them out a couple of pieces, along with some ice cream, uncle and niece sat back down on the sofa. They stared blankly at the telly that was turned off across the room. The multi-coloured lights on the tree twinkled rhythmically, illuminating the dim room that was otherwise only lit by lamps.

“I guess I shouldn’t bother asking about the scars on his back,” Amelia mumbled.

Mycroft visibly paled but again didn’t answer.

“Did they ask you not to talk to me about it?” Amelia protested.

Her uncle settled back into the sofa cushions and crossed his legs.

“We haven’t talked about it in ages, to be honest,” he confessed. “But yes, when you were younger there were certain things they requested I allow them to tell you.”

“And the bullet wound was one of them?”

“Yes.”

“And the scars?”

“Yes.”

“And my mother’s past?”

No answer.

“Uncle Mycroft-“

“Amelia,” he warned, turning to her.

“I’m eighteen,” she insisted, “I’m old enough.”

“It’s not about being _old enough_ ,” Mycroft shot. “Although honestly I don’t think you can make a case for being ‘old enough’ when you’re demanding answers from people who aren’t ready to give them to you.”

That was it.

Amelia jumped up, throwing her hands in the air, and had to resist the urge to kick the table.

“Fine!” She exclaimed, crossing her arms and letting out a huff of air just to show how upset she was. “You’re right, I’m just a little kid who still needs her uncle to hang around and watch her when her parents are out. Thanks for the dinner, Mycroft, but I think I’ll just go to bed early.”

Spinning around, she made to storm off to her room, but her uncle stopped her:

“Don’t you think there’s a reason they don’t tell you about these things? Haven’t you ever thought perhaps they are protecting you from something?”

Facing away from him she hesitated because yes, she had thought there might be a reason. But she didn’t want to think about her dads wanting to protect her from something. What could have possibly have been so bad that they couldn’t tell her even to this day?

“Sherlock solved his first murder at nine years old,” Mycroft suddenly announced. Amelia froze. Sherlock had always told her his crime solving days started when he met Greg Lestrade; he had never suggested he had done any detective work when he was younger. “A schoolboy in his year was murdered during a trip to a swimming pool. The police ruled his death as a drowning accident, but Sherlock figured out that the boy was murdered.”

Her mouth fell open and quickly closed again. She knew her stepdad was brilliant- she had seen his thinking process and deduction skills in person countless times, and each time she was more and more impressed. But to be able to solve a murder like that at nine years old, without anyone even asking him to?

How had she never been told this story before?

“How?” She finally asked.

“His shoes,” Mycroft explained, his eyes narrowing in on her, observing her to see what her reaction would be. “The police didn’t find his shoes at the crime scene. Sherlock was the only person who thought that was suspicious so he phoned in the tip.”

“So Sherlock solved his death?” Amelia said. “He would be a national hero then, right? I’ve never even heard this story.”

“That’s because until about twenty-one years ago the police still ruled the death as an accident,” he explained.

“The police didn’t listen to him?”

“No,” Mycroft sighed. “And frankly, neither did I, nor any of the rest of our family.”

“So…what happened twenty-one years ago?” She asked.

“Jim Moriarty.”

The name sent shivers up her spine; just the way her uncle said the man’s name shook her to the bone. Mycroft stood up and strode over to the fireplace and began to light it.

“I’ve never heard that name before,” Amelia admitted quietly.

“That’s because your father, your stepdad, and I have worked very hard to make sure you know nothing of Jim Moriarty.”

She swallowed nervously, uncertain if she really wanted to know the answer to her next question:

“Who is he?”

The fire crackled to life, and Amelia shivered at the force of it. She grabbed a throw blanket and sank back down into the sofa, wrapping the blanket around herself. It was a rather cold night, and she hated thinking of her stepdad out there freezing on some stakeout while she sat her gossiping about him.

“If I’m not supposed to know-“ Amelia began.

“You should know,” Mycroft abruptly cut in. He turned around to her, gazing at her with determined, and yet sympathetic, eyes. “You should know because you are right, you are getting older, and there’s only so much longer your fathers will be able to protect you every day. You need to know what you’re up against in this world.”

He threw a final gaze toward the final before joining her on the sofa. He reached for the bottle of wine, but Amelia threw her hand out to stop him.

“If my Dads find out you told me all these things I don’t want them thinking you did it because you were tipsy,” she pointed out.

With a sigh, Mycroft straightened his suit jacket and settled back against the sofa cushions. He stared at his hands for a few moments before he drew a deep breath and explained:

“Jim Moriarty was a year above Sherlock and Carl Powers,” Mycroft explained. “He poisoned Carl Powers that day at pool, causing the young boy to lose consciousness and drown.”

“God…”

“Sherlock always knew the boy was murdered but he didn’t figure out how and who murdered him until about twenty-one years ago,” her uncle went on.

“What happened twenty-one years ago?” Her throat felt raw even as she asked. She tried to maintain her composure, reminding herself that she had insisted she was old enough and mature enough to hear these stories. Now she had to prove to herself that she was right.

“Sherlock met Jim Moriarty,” Mycroft said.

“But who was he?” She asked. “What did he have to do with Carl Powers?”

“He murdered him.” Amelia stared at her uncle for a long moment, trying to piece everything together in her mind. “As for who Jim Moriarty was at the time, twenty-one years ago, he was a consulting criminal.”

“Come again?”

“A consulting criminal,” he reiterated. “As your stepfather is a consulting detective, Jim Moriarty was a consulting criminal. He was a criminal for hire. If someone needed someone murdered or needed a bank to be robbed-“

“They got Moriarty to do it,” she realised.

He nodded.

“Jim Moriarty had Carl Powers’ shoes,” he said.

“So this Moriarty fellow tracked down my stepdad after all those years to…do what, exactly? After all the police never believed Carl Powers was murdered.”

“Well Moriarty had been hired to pursue my brother.”

“Pursue him?”

“Well I suppose he was supposed to kill him,” Mycroft said. “But he decided to play the long game.”

“Long game?”

“Are you just going to sit here and repeat everything I say?”

“Sorry,” she muttered.

Her uncle took a long sip of his water; he seemed to be lost in his gaze, his eyes out of focus and staring down at the table. He was clearly lost in the past, and Amelia felt a little out of place, knowing they were talking about a world in which she didn’t exist yet. Her stepdad, her dad, her uncle- they were all different people then.

“Moriarty taunted Sherlock, getting him involved in strings of murders- ‘puzzles’, he called them. He seemed determined to make his life a living hell.”

“You said he was basically ‘murder for hire’,” Amelia said, “so who hired him?”

Hesitating, Mycroft drew in a deep breath and let it out again. He paused for a long moment, clearly wondering if he really wanted to go there.

And that’s when she realised: maybe this was still ongoing. Maybe this Moriarty person was still out there- or whoever hired him was. Maybe that’s why her dads were so secretive about their past. Maybe that’s why to this day they practically had panic attacks whenever she wanted to go to London alone with her mates.

Her family was hiding in plain sight.

“He’s still out there, isn’t he?” She stated softly. “Moriarty and whoever hired him, they’re both still out there. That’s why my parents are so protective of me. That’s why they’ve been keeping me in the dark about their past.”

“Moriarty killed himself.”

Mycroft still wasn’t looking at her: he was still hiding something. There was still something he was too afraid to tell her about.

“Amelia,” Mycroft warned, leaning forward. He rested his elbows on his knees and his fingertips underneath his chin. “You have a very dangerous family history. There are things your dads would rather keep from you, but it’s not because they don’t think you’re responsible enough or old enough to know. They just want to keep you safe. They want you to grow up in a world where you don’t have to worry about these things, these people. We all work very hard to protect you from that.”

Hearing those words made her feel like someone had punched her in the stomach. She sank down into the sofa and rolled over to face away from her uncle. Her uncle helped her spread the blanket out over her, and he handed a pillow to her.

“I’m about to go off to uni,” she muttered.

“Yes,” her uncle sighed.

“You’re not going to like…have people following me around there, are you?”

“Depends,” he said. She peered up at him and saw his eyes were twinkling. “Have you decided where you’re going to do your studies?”

She simply shrugged.

Now she wasn’t sure how far away she should go if the outside world was so dangerous for her.

“Don’t I have the right to know who’s after me?” She asked, rolling onto her back. “What if I get into Oxford or Harvard or-“

“Harvard?” Her uncle frowned. “You can’t go to Harvard.”

She sat up again.

“Why?” She demanded.

“Well…it’s in America.”

“Yes, I’m aware.”

Her uncle’s eyebrows shot up, but she didn’t budge.

“You applied to Harvard?” He asked, and she nodded. “You didn’t tell anyone.”

“I figured everyone would react like this,” she admitted. “And this is my point exactly. If our family history is so dangerous, if there are still threats out there, I should know.”

With a sympathetic smile, Mycroft patted her leg before he stood up and began to gather the dirty dishes from the coffee table.

“There will always be threats,” he said. “Old threats, new threats. I could tell you at least five different people still alive that would love to cut off my brother’s head, but for every threat we know there’s another one out there we don’t know. I could tell you the entire history of your stepdad’s life and everything I know about your father’s and you would still have hundreds of questions for me.”

“So basically, I’m never going to find out who shot my stepdad and why, am I?”

“Trust me,” Mycroft replied, “that’s a can of worms you do not want to open. Your focus right now needs to be on school. Now, if you’re serious about Harvard I do know someone-“

“No!” She protested. “I want to get into uni on my own merit. I mean really, would you want to have a brain surgeon who only got into medical school because of a family favour?”

“True,” her uncle agreed. “Although I’m sure it happens.”

“I’m sure it does too,” she smiled, “but not to me. I know I can do this, I just have to find the right school and, well, be smart enough and good enough to get in.”

“You will be brilliant,” he promised her. He threw a glance toward the Christmas tree and smiled. “I suppose it wouldn’t be Christmas Eve without opening at least one present.”

She watched as he strode over to the tree and picked up a small gift bag. The smile on his face was one of the brightest she had seen on him in a while, and she found herself grinning from ear to ear as she accepted the gift. Tearing out the tissue paper, she pulled out two books and laughed.

The first book was _Spanish for Dummies_.

The second book was about the history of Barcelona.

“Does this mean I’m going to Spain?”

“Yes, you’re going.” Before he could get in another word she leaped off the sofa and ran to hug him. “They made me promise not to tell you, but I couldn’t resist.”

“Thank you,” she whispered as she threw her arms around him. “Thank you so much.”

“Don’t thank me,” he teased, “I merely got you the books. It’s your dads who decided you are responsible enough to go.”

She found herself smiling as she pulled away from him. So her parents did think she was an adult after all!

“Do you think they’ll think I’m responsible enough to go away to Harvard?” She asked

Her uncle laughed.

“I think if you can get into Harvard and arrange to move to America you’ll be more responsible than the both of them combined,” he replied, winking at her. “Now wrap those books back up.  I don’t want them to know I told you.”

“Sure,” she grinned.

She could feel his eyes watching as she put the books back in the back and carefully covered them with tissue paper. She had a feeling there was more he wanted to tell her, but he knew he couldn’t.

“Amelia,” he said quietly, placing a hand on her shoulder. “You know no matter where you are or where you go, no matter your age, I will always be there for you.”

Turning back toward him, she offered him another kind, appreciative smile. Amelia did understand there was a reason her parents kept these secrets from her, and after talking to Mycroft she worried they didn’t want her to know the answers her questions because they might change how she felt about her family.

And right now, she was really happy with her family. Her family was perfect.

So maybe she could afford to keep waiting until her parents were ready to talk to her.

“Happy Christmas, Mycroft,” she said. “I’m really glad you decided to stay tonight.”

At that moment the door open and her father rushed in, supporting her stepdad as he did. The consulting detective’s nose was bleeding, and he was holding it tight with bloody tissues as the doctor led him into the house. He rushed into the kitchen as he stepdad collapsed in defeat onto the sofa.

“Dare I ask what happened to you?” Her uncle demanded as Amelia sat by her stepdad’s side.

“Here Daddy,” she said, moving his hand away so she could hold the tissues for him.

When she saw up close just how bad his nose look and how swollen his eye was, she grimaced.

“What do you think?” Her dad spat as he returned to the sofa with a bag of ice. “He couldn’t just _let_ Greg arrest the guy. No, he had to get in his face.”

“And he deserved it!” Her stepdad argued.

“Maybe so,” her dad sighed as he sat down next to his husband. With a sympathetic smile he ran his hands through her stepdad’s curls; their eyes met, and Amelia knew they weren’t really angry with each other. “Still, you should be more careful. You’re not that young anymore. Come on now, let me see. It’s been about fifteen minutes.”

Amelia lowered the tissues and her stepdad winced as her dad gently touched his nose and examined it.

“It doesn’t appear to be broken,” the doctor reassured them. “Just keep the ice on it.”

Running his hands through his own hair, her father sighed as he leaned back against the sofa. At last he looked at her and offered her an apologetic smile.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t be here tonight, sweetheart,” he said as he placed an arm around her shoulders.

“It’s okay,” she said, hugging him. “I’m just glad you two are home safe…well, relatively safe.”

“I’ll be fine,” her stepdad mumbled. “Thanks for staying, Mycroft.”

“No problem,” her uncle said. “There are leftovers in the fridge. You two look utterly knackered so I suppose I will see you in the morning. Happy Christmas.”

“Happy Christmas,” the three of them replied back in unison.

They watched in silence as Mycroft grabbed his coat and showed himself out the door. A grin spread across her dad’s face as he looked from his husband to Amelia.

“Dare I say it or does Mycroft have a bit of Christmas spirit?”

He and her stepdad laughed at the same time, as though sharing some inside joke.

“You guys know I don’t need a babysitter,” she said. “But it was nice to get to catch up with him. How about I fix you two some leftovers?”

“Ugh…I can’t eat,” her stepdad complained.

“You’re eating,” she and her dad protested at the same time.

“I’m going to go wash up,” her dad said. “Amelia I’d love it if you could heat up some food, thanks.”

“Of course.”

As he left she turned her attention to her stepdad. She took the ice from him so she could hold it against his eye and nose for him.

“You scare me sometimes,” she admitted. “You know you shouldn’t do these things.”

Her stepdad’s eyes drifted over to meet hers.

“You should see the other guy,” he quipped.  

Rolling her eyes, Amelia propped her feet up on the coffee table and crossed her arms.

“You’re a child sometimes, you know that?” She teased. “Sometimes I feel like I’m more mature than you are.”

“Sometimes _I_ feel like you’re more mature than I am,” Sherlock admitted with a smile.

He leaned over and planted a kiss on the top of her head. She laughed as she pulled away, but he stopped her.

“Wait,” he instructed. He sniffed at the air. “Is that alcohol I smell on your breath? Have you been drinking? I’m going to murder Mycroft!”

“It was one drink!” She protested. “It was just some rum mixed in with coke.”

“Rum?!” Her stepdad said before shouting: “John! Our daughter has been drinking. We need to have The Talk!”

Amelia slapped him playfully in the shoulder.

“I have tried alcohol before, you know,” she replied. “And for the record, Uncle Mycroft had far more to drink than I did. If anyone needs to have a talk about alcohol, it’s him.”

“We’ve talked about it before,” her stepdad muttered. “Nothing’s going to stop him from being a wine snob.”

“Yeah, well, his wine was gross,” she commented.

“Nevertheless, be careful with alcohol,” her stepdad warned. “Alcohol can get out of hand really quickly, and not just because it’s easy to get to the point where you can’t just have one drink. People take advantage of you when you drink. I know it sounds cliché but-“

“I know,” she assured him. “I know. I don’t really like to drink anyway.”

“Good.”

“Yeah…”

Her stepdad’s warning had her thinking- did alcoholism run in her family somewhere? After all her mum had a heart disease that even she hadn’t known about and ended up dying from it in labour…

“I think we should have a talk though,” Amelia said quietly. “I want to know more about where I came from. I _need_ to know. I can’t even fill out a bloody medical form.”

Placing a hand on her knee, her stepdad offered her a sympathetic smile.

“You’re right, I suppose there are some things you deserve to know,” he replied, his eyes darkening and his voice hallow. He turned to her, more serious than she had seen him in a long time, and confessed: “I had the chickenpox when I was seven.”

She couldn’t help but to burst out laughing and he echoed her.  

“What?” He asked. “They ask that!”

“No they don’t,” she giggled, “though it is funny imagining you with chickenpox.”

“It was awful!” Her stepdad whined. “And dreadfully boring.”

He grinned at her and she rolled her eyes. Shaking her head, she composed herself, making sure she looked like she was completely serious before turning back to her stepdad.

“I mean it, Daddy,” she said softly. “I have a right to know about my past.”

Her stepdad placed a hand on her knee.

“There’s a difference between having a right to know something and being ready to know something,” he replied. “We don’t keep things from you to be mean, or because we don’t think you should know.”

“I know- I know you want to protect me,” she said, “but I can handle it. Whatever it is, I can handle it. Plus, don’t you think I’m in danger by not knowing? Like I said, I don’t even know our medical history! If anyone in my dad’s family were alcoholics or if they had heart disease-“

Suddenly her stepdad’s eyes went wide. They turned a bit hollow, like he was sucked back into the past. She had hit a sore spot.

“Heart disease,” she repeated quietly. “That’s why Mum died during labour: she had a heart disease. But…that’s not very common, is it? Even for back then. Wouldn’t the doctors have given her all sorts of precautions to take?”

“They would have…if they had known she had a heart disease.”

Her stepdad’s eyes drifted over to her carefully, full of regret and sorrow.

“She didn’t know?” Amelia asked.

“You’re right,” her stepdad admitted. “It’s dangerous to not know. Your mother didn’t know her family history either. She had a baby and…you know, your dad should really be the one telling you this. Let me talk to him and we’ll discuss it in the morning. And by the way…I’m sorry I ruined Christmas Eve.”

With a sympathetic smile, she kissed her stepdad on the cheek.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” she promised.

 

She woke up the next morning to the sound of…rain. With a groan she rolled out of bed, pulled back her curtains, and glared at the sight of pouring rain on Christmas Day. The drive out to her grandparents’ was going to be terrible.

Nevertheless it was eight in the morning, the sound of classical Christmas music flowed into her room from her stepdad’s violin, and she could smell breakfast cooking. She wasted no time in grabbing her dressing gown and racing into the living room. When her stepdad spotted her he smiled over the rim of his violin but continued playing a rather over-emotional rendition of “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas”.

“You’re going to make your mum cry if you play that,” she pointed out.

He only grinned.

“I know,” he teased.

Rolling her eyes, she shivered from the chilly air of the room and walked over to the fireplace that was roaring near the tree. Their home really was Christmas-perfect: which was funny because she knew her stepdad certainly didn’t care for Christmas and her dad mainly seemed to care for her behalf.

She couldn’t help but to wonder- as she did every year- what Christmases would have been like with her mum. Did she sing? Was she religious? What was her favourite Christmas film? Did she like to wrap presents or put them in gift bags? Did she prefer Christmas ham or roast beef?

“Happy Christmas, sweetheart.”

A smile fell across her face at the sound of her dad’s voice, and she let out a happy sigh as she pulled herself away from her thoughts and turned to him.

“Happy Christmas, Dad.”

They hugged for a long moment, and somehow she knew he was thinking of her mum at that very moment too. When she pulled back he pushed a strand of hair out of her face, as he always did he was deep in thought and worried about telling her something.

“I can’t believe it’s already your eighteenth Christmas,” her dad said with a sad laugh. “I still remember your first like it was yesterday.”

With a shy laugh, she pointed out:

“You say that every year.”

“And every year it’s true. Come on, I’ve made a proper breakfast for once.”

Even her stepdad followed them to the table without a protest, and her stomach knotted when she realise this must be it. They were really going to tell her about her mother. For a single, terrifying, moment anxiety-ridden moment she worried she wouldn’t like what she would hear. It was always a fear of hers: that there was a very good reason her family had kept her mother’s past a secret.

But she told herself she had to be brave. She had waited too long to hear this story; she had begged for too long to hear it. She had to prove herself mature enough to know.

“Amelia, we’d like to talk to you,” her dad finally announced as they sat down at the table.

Suddenly she had no appetite for the spread in front of them, which included a full traditional English breakfast. She noticed her stepdad was busying himself with piling food onto his plate, and considering how little he usually ate in the morning she knew he was looking for a distraction.

“We discussed it, and it is a bit unfair to still hide such an important part of your past from you,” her dad admitted. “But it’s not going to be easy to tell…or to hear.”

Swallowing nervously, she wished they hadn’t chosen to tell her over breakfast. She knew there wasn’t a lot of spare time on Christmas, but it was still _awkward_.

“The truth is that we never knew very much about your mother,” her dad confessed. A lump developed in her throat- what was that supposed to mean?! “Your mother…when we met she…she wasn’t very truthful about her real identity.”

She blinked.

Many different scenarios about her mother’s past had gone through her head since she was a child. At one time she worried maybe her mother had actually cheated on her dad at one point and that’s why it was such a touchy subject. But she had always told herself she was just being silly.

“There’s not really an easy way to say this,” her dad said, hesitating as he glanced at her stepdad. “Your mother did some work for the CIA when she was younger. She got caught up in…in something bad. She entered a protection program in Europe and totally changed her identity. When we met she…she didn’t tell me any of this.”

Amelia blinked again.

That might have possibly have been the very last explanation of her mother’s past she would have ever expected. Her mother was _CIA_?! Her mother was…

“Mum was American?!”

Her father let out a chuckle, and even her stepdad cracked a smile.

“I know, the _horror_ ,” her stepdad teased.

 “She’s from Washington DC, according to the files Uncle Mycroft could find on her,” her dad continued. “She really was adopted…well, at least according to the files, so who knows.”

“DC?” She echoed. DC…that was…that was pretty cool! Her mother grew up around politics. Perhaps that’s what inspired her to join the CIA in the first place. _My mum, the CIA agent._ She really was living in her own movie. “I’ve always wanted to visit.”

Her stepdad suddenly sat down his fork and scowled.

“Your uncle wanted to take you to DC when you were twelve and you threw a fit about how boring it would be,” he protested.

Amelia rolled her eyes.

“Would _you_ want to tour _Washington DC_ with your brother?” She challenged.

This earned a chuckle from him, and he admitted:

“No way in hell.”

For a few silent moments the family ate, and she understood why her dad wanted to do this over food. It was the perfect distraction as she pushed the beans around her plate, hardly having the appetite to eat at all. All she could think of was now she had more questions than answers and there was clearly no way to find those answers. Even worse, she felt horrible for her parents, who had gone all this time with barely knowing more about her mother than she did. Looking up, she stole a glance at her dad, who looked rather like he was going to be sick. Suddenly she had the urge to hug him, to let him know how much she loved and appreciated him.

Standing up, she walked around the table and wrapped her arms around her dad.

“I can’t imagine how hard it must have been to learn all that,” she muttered. “I’m so sorry.”

“It was very hard,” her dad admitted, patting her on the arm.

She kissed his cheek, and when she backed away she noticed he still looked well, terrified.

“There’s more, isn’t there?” She asked quietly.

Her dad looked up to her stepdad, who noticeably swallowed nervously and nodded.

“There was a man who discovered your mother’s true identity,” her father began quietly. “He was very powerful…he ran these local newspapers and media and had a way of ruining any given person’s life with a snap of his finger. And he…he didn’t like your daddy very much. Or your uncle.”

“Uncle Mycroft?” She asked; her heart skipped a beat. “What does he have to do with anything?”

Once again her fathers met eyes, and her stepdad muttered:

“He has _everything_ to do with it.”

“This man, he wanted to- for lack of a better phrase- bring down Mycroft,” her dad explained. “So he went through his brother. And the best way to get through to his brother…was to me. So he threatened Mary…threatened your mother, telling her he would expose her for who she really was. And Mary decided…she decided to take matters into her own hands.”

Eyes wide, Amelia had a terrible feeling about what that meant. She knew her family was powerful. She knew Mycroft could make basically anything he wanted to happen. It was more than obvious to her that sometimes this meant _getting rid of problems_ in his own way.

“She went into this man’s office with the intent to…to…”

She knew what he was going to say, but her dad stopped altogether. Her stepdad finished for him:

“She went there to kill him. And he would have deserved it. Believe me, he would have.”

Amelia went pale, her father looked like he might break into pieces, and her stepdad looked like he wanted to punch something.

“What happened instead?” She insisted.

Placing his elbows on the table, her stepdad folded his hands and looked her straight in the eye. She swallowed hard- he only did that when he had something _very_ serious to tell her. Something she wouldn’t like hearing.

“That same evening your father and I snuck into this man’s office to investigate,” he began, his voice steady but uncharacteristically low. “Your mother- in her bugler disguise- entered at the same time I was inside. She shot me.”

Her fork fell out of her hand. Panic rose through her rapidly; her breathing became unsteady.

“Amelia,” her dad said softly, getting up from his seat.

“I just…” she swallowed again, running her hands through her hair.

What was she supposed to say? That she regretted asking them to tell her the truth? That everything she ever felt about her mother just changed in an instant? That she wasn’t even sure who _she herself_ was now? All her life she had dreamed of what it would be like to have her mother in her life- how her life would have been different. Now she knew the truth: she was better off never knowing her mother.

Tears were in her eyes as she jumped up from the table and fled to her room. She knew her dad was behind her but that didn’t stop her from slamming her bedroom door behind her and throwing herself on the bed in a pile of tears.

“Amelia!” Her father called, opening the door gently. When he saw her crying on the bed he said nothing. He simply sat on the bed beside her and began rubbing her back with his hand. “This is why I never wanted to tell you. I wanted you to think well of your mother. She really was a good person she just got caught up in some very bad business with extremely bad people. Believe me, I was pissed when I found out what happened in that office. It…it almost ended our marriage. But we were going to have you, your mother desperately wanted to move on from her past and so we decided to make it work.”

Amelia frowned- that didn’t exactly sound like a happy marriage. She really didn’t understand it: it sounded like he and her mother were together for a short period of time, didn’t _really_ know each other, had a major falling out, and happen to have a child together. Yet her father was still distraught over her death, she knew he still felt guilty about it, and he seemed to miss her like they had been married for decades. How could he still be so upset over a woman who betrayed him, who almost killed his best friend?

“I know it’s confusing,” her dad offered. “If it makes you feel any better it was actually your daddy who convinced me and your mum to stay together.”

Her eyes went wide.

“Why would he do that?” She blurted out. “She could have killed him! I’ve seen the scar from a bullet wound on his chest. How could he stand up for someone who hurt him like that? How could you?”

Her dad looked surprised at the accusation, and her mouth fell closed. Maybe she was saying too much. Maybe she should shut up about things she didn’t truly know about.

“The moment you find out you’re having a baby your whole life changes. It’s not about you anymore. Everything is about your kid, and you become a different person. We knew the most important thing was for you to have a safe, happy, life.”

“Would you have divorced her if it hadn’t been for me?”

She knew the answer. Rather or not her father could admit it, she knew the answer. She wanted to hear him say it- she wanted him to admit it to himself. Instead of answering her father just stayed silent, mouth fallen halfway open and she reached out to touch his arm.

“You know what I think?” She said quietly. “I think you would have divorced her, moved back in with Sherlock, fallen in love with him anyway, and that would have been okay. I’m grateful that you tried to make it work. That was very big of you. Very brave of you. I can’t even imagine what that was like and I…I love you, Dad. And thank you. Thank you for everything you’ve done for me…all of the sacrifices you’ve made. You are amazing. And thank you for telling me the truth. I needed to know. I needed to stop living in this...fantasy world.”

She bit her lip; if she were being honest with herself she knew she would soon yearn for the days when she could imagine her mother as being this carefree, loving, brilliant mum. She knew she would never stop wondering how dangerous her world might have been had her mum survived the birth. She would never stop wondering what would have become of her father or stepdad.

But the fact was that now they were all one happy family. She knew her dads loved each other and loved her, more than anything. She knew their love was pure, that they would do anything for each other and never trade their love for each other for the world. Somehow, they had managed to move on from what happened to them and do an outstanding job of raising their daughter. That’s all that mattered now: they had made it. They were safe.

“Your mother really did want to make her life better,” her father said softly, “and when she found out she was having you it was like that was her chance. You totally changed her life. When I mourn her I think of all she set out to do, all she _could_ have done. No, I don’t know the things she did when she was CIA, but if they were anything like what Mycroft goes through then she went through hell. She sacrificed her whole life. Sherlock and I have made peace with what she did. It took a long time, but we’ve made peace with what she did. I don’t expect you to accept all of this overnight. It might be years before you even begin to understand the scope of it all. But you really did deserve to know. You’re an adult now, Amelia. Your life is in your hands. You can be _anyone_ , do _anything_.”

She grinned and teased:

“What if I want to join the government and work for Uncle Mycroft?”

Her father’s face turned to stone, and she burst out laughing.

“I’m kidding!” She insisted. “I still plan on going to medical school.”

“Good,” her dad replied with a smile. He kissed her on top of her head. “I’m very proud of you. You’re so strong. Your mum would be proud of you- proud of the woman you have become.”

A smile crossed her face, and she whispered:

“She would be proud of how you raised me.”

She could feel her father smile against her, and he murmured:

“I can only hope.”

They broke apart, and Amelia was already feeling better. She knew this wouldn’t be the last breakdown she would have, but this was just the first baby step to acceptance.

“Well come on,” her dad announced, placing his hand down on the mattress. “It’s still Christmas. We’ve got to leave for your grandparents in a couple of hours.”

There was a long pause between them; she really wasn’t sure how she could go on being in the Christmas spirit after all she had learned. Her dad seemed to have sensed this. Placing a hand on her knee, he offered quietly:

“You know we haven’t visited her grave lately. I know it’s raining but…want to make a detour on the way to your grandparents’?”

Her eyes lit up, and before she could stop herself tears slowly began to fall from her eyes and he wrapped her up in a hug. She had a feeling her dad was right- it would be a long time before she could begin to understand, let alone accept, her past. But she couldn’t be happier that her dad was willing to talk about it and to know that he truly did still care for her mum.

“I’m always here, you know,” her dad whispered, “if you need to talk.”

Nodding, she broke away and wiped the tears from her face.

 

It was still sprinkling when they arrived to the gravesite. There were several other families spread about the cemetery, but as she stood in front of her mother’s she felt like the only people in the world were her and her dads. They each took one of her hands, and she fell against her dad’s shoulder. She let him hold her as she just stared, unsure of what to say or do.

“Your mum would be so…impressed,” her dad finally set, letting out a hollow laugh. “I think she would have loved nothing more than for her daughter to live a normal, safe life, to do be smart and go to uni…”

Her dad trailed off and she rolled her eyes, knowing what he was hinting at. He had been pressuring her to make choices about where to apply to school- especially about where to apply within the United Kingdom.

“About that,” she sighed. Amelia picked herself away from her father and wrapped her arms around herself. “I’ve been thinking of applying to some schools abroad. Specifically…Harvard.”

She swore both her dads’ jaws dropped at the same time. Amelia almost laughed, but she remembered where she was and looked down at the ground instead.

“If I can get into their pre-med programme that could lead me to all sorts of options for medical school- least of all attending their medical school. I more than qualify for admittance and scholarships, if you’re worried about the cost and-“

“We’ve taken care of that,” her stepdad said quietly, speaking up for the first time since entering the cemetery. Amelia’s eyes widen in surprise; she knew her dad made good money as a doctor and she figured paying for school or living expenses wouldn’t be _too_ much of an issue. But when she looked at the cost of going to school abroad- especially of going to Harvard- she had worried that would be the main thing her parents would be concerned about. “There’s money set aside for you…family money. Plenty of it so you can go to school wherever you’d like.”

Her stepdad’s eyes trailed back down to her mother’s grave, and Amelia wondered if he was talking about some sort of account her mum had aside for her.

Or, more than likely, maybe money from her stepdad’s side of the family.

But still…it was a relief to hear.

Yet neither of her fathers looked too excited about her announcement.

“I might not even get in,” Amelia blurted out. “I mean loads of people apply there. Same with Yale and…I’m just keeping my options open.”

There was a long moment of silence. She stood listening to the sounds of raindrops falling on her brolly.

She had disappointed them.

She was their only child, they were such a close family, and she was sure her parents had only ever imagined her staying within the country for school.

And probably for her whole life.

Amelia watched as her father stared solemnly down at his wife’s grave, and a pit fell in her stomach as she realised what terrible timing she had. Maybe she had underestimated the mood her parents were in. In twenty-four hours she had convinced them to tell her more about her past than she had ever learned before, making them relieve through all these horrors, and now she was proposing the idea of moving across the pond.

“You know I’ll support you no matter what,” her father finally offered, wrapping an arm around her back. “But I would be lying if I said the idea of you moving to another country wasn’t terrifying.”

She forced a small smile, appreciating his honesty.

“It’s scary for me too,” she whispered. She let out a single laugh. “I practically had a panic attack just applying. I probably won’t even get in.”

Truthfully she really didn’t think she would: she even knew people just at her school that were applying- let alone everyone else around the world who was. Why would they accept her over them?

“If you don’t it’s their loss,” her stepfather announced. He also placed an arm around her back so that it looped with his husband’s. “I know that’s a terribly cliché thing to say. We want what’s best than you. You have the world at your hands, Amelia. Don’t hold yourself back because of us.

On one hand a weight lifted off her shoulders upon hearing that, but at the same time the more she was with her family the more she would miss them.

After all, Oxford was an _amazing_ school.

“It’s not like we have to decide right now, yeah?” Her dad pointed out. “How about this: we haven’t done a proper tour of many schools yet. Why don’t you make out a list of your top choices and we’ll plan out some time to explore them?”

A grin spread across her face- she knew nothing would help her decide like actually seeing the campuses for herself and getting a feel of what it would be like to be a student there.

“That would be amazing!” She exclaimed, letting her head rest on her father’s shoulder.

As a family they fell into silence once again, their eyes all pinned on the grave of her mother. Where would she want her to go to school? What did her mother study to school? Where did she go to school- was it in America? What made her want to be in the CIA?

Did _she_ herself have what it takes to live that kind of life?

She couldn’t help but to muse herself with the thought. She supposed being in the CIA would be sort of like whatever it was her uncle did, and she knew he had travelled a lot in his career. God what she would give to travel- to truly see the world. And he kept a lot of top secret government secrets, which she couldn’t even imagine having the responsibility of doing.

At the time she knew his career had come with its fair share of pain…she had seen the white scars on his face, his arms, and she was sure on other parts of his body. He would never talk about it.

Did she really want a career she couldn’t talk about?

She couldn’t imagine how hard that was. She imagined there was so many times her mum wanted to tell her dad everything but couldn’t.

No, there was beauty in normalcy. Being a doctor, saving people’s lives, taking care of them through the years and gaining their trust. Getting married. Having her own kids. Owning a home. All of that sounded fantastic.

“Don’t worry about it too much,” her stepfather whispered into her ear. “You’ll find your way, you’ll make mistakes, you’ll change your mind, but everything will work out in the end. You’ll be brilliant.”

At that her dad checked the time and let out a sigh.

“We should head to your parents’, Sherlock,” he announced. “Your mum will be furious if we’re late for lunch.”

Amelia groaned.

“I can’t eat lunch!” She whined. “I’m still too full from last night!”

“You will eat lunch and you will like it,” her stepfather teased. “Besides, I think they might let you open an early present before this evening.”

He winked, and the part of her that was still a child that couldn’t help but to get excited at the thought of presents.

“Okay,” she smiled.

Both her dads took one of her hands as they silently walked back to the car. All around the cemetery other cars were beginning to pull up to visit their loved ones, and the tightness in her chest she felt when she arrived still wouldn’t go away.

“Are you going to be okay?” Her dad asked quietly before they got in the car, turning her toward him.

Her face paled as she forced herself to shake her head yes.

“Yes,” she lied. He stared at her, warning her with his eyes that it was useless to lie. “I mean, I will be. You’re right…it’ll take time.”

His eyes were full of guilt as she looked into them, so she threw her arms around him. She really did think so much more of him that day than ever, knowing the secrets he had lived with and how hard it would have been for him to have forgiven her mother. Her dad didn’t say anything as he hugged her back, but she could practically hear him thinking out loud- remembering- and she felt a little bit guilty too for bringing up old memories.

“Right,” her dad finally sighed when they broke apart. “Let’s do this Christmas thing. You know…how about you drive? You haven’t gotten much practice.”

Amelia’s eyes lit up as he tossed the keys to her; she felt her heart pounding with excitement- and slightly with nerves.

“Really?!” She squealed.

“Yeah, John, really?” Her stepdad echoed.

“Yeah, we’ll be fine,” his dad assured, “but you drive under the speed limit, okay.”

“Sure dad,” she replied, rolling her eyes.

She actually did perfectly fine driving through the countryside, though she couldn’t help but to steal glances over to her father and back to her stepdad. Neither said a word the whole ride, and she couldn’t even begin to imagine the nightmares their minds were trapped in.

Maybe Mycroft had been right: maybe she really would regret knowing.

Maybe there was even more that she still didn't know about her family's past. Her mother's history didn't seem to touch the secrecy surrounding her fathers- and nothing she learned explained the scars on her stepdad's back.

Maybe she really wasn't ready to learn the whole truth. It's not like the truth would change how she felt about her family, right?

All she could do in the end was be the best person she could be- the best daughter she could be.

The rest, she decided, would take care of itself.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for reading! I hope you enjoyed it :) 
> 
> I would love to know what you thought, feedback would be much appreciated!! 
> 
> I hope you all have a Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, and enjoy the holiday season whatever you might celebrate! Thanks for being great readers and sticking with the Amelia series all year!!


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